The pain is worse again.
It’s always worse at night. Predictably, as the sun slips low, my leg and back begin to throb and stab in time with my heartbeat.
Pain like this gives you time to think. And to dream.
I sleep in fits and starts—two hours at a time, at best. My dreams are wild, unbidden things, and when I wake, the pain is often sharper than before.
It reminds me of darker times…times documented here on this blog, if you go back far enough. Times when I struggled with acute depression and the ordinary demands of daily life felt impossibly heavy.
Back when I had to convince myself that staying was a good idea.
It’s not something I speak about lightly, but I do think it matters. The more honest conversations we have about mental health, the better. Depression is real—an ugly, shadowed thing that can smother the spirit and make even the most basic tasks feel insurmountable.
Like chronic pain, it can be long-lasting. But recovery is possible.
And I am deeply thankful that it is.
I hope, one day, to speak of this pain in the same way—in retrospect. To look back on it as something I endured, rather than something I am still actively carrying.
But for now, I wait for the Tylenol to kick in and pray that, tonight, it helps.